


Crossroads

by fawatson



Category: The Last of the Wine - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One evening Phaedo slips out of Gurgos' bathhouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally Posted to:** maryrenaultfics at LiveJournal on 31/10/2012  
>  **Originally Written for:** MRF's Hallowe’en – Spooky Fic Challenge 2012  
>  **Prompt:** I’ll Haunt You  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.  
>  **Acknowledgements:** Many thanks to my sister Greer Watson for her editing comments and suggestions.  
>  **Author’s Notes:**  
>  (a) In Ancient Greek mythology Oedipus killed his father Laius at a crossroads on the way from Delphi and solved the riddle of the Sphinx.  
> (b) Hekate is goddess of crossroads. Her approach was heralded by the howling of a dog. Greeks held the yew to be sacred to Hekate. One aspect of her was associated with helping women in childbirth. Hekate was also closely associated with plant lore and poisons.  
> (c) In Ancient Greek mythology, Philomela was raped and imprisoned by her sister Procne’s husband. To prevent her from telling anyone, her rapist cut out her tongue. She wove a tapestry that told the story and sent it to her sister, who then killed her own son and served him to his father for dinner. The husband/rapist then tried to kill both sisters but as they fled the Gods turned them into birds (tongue-less Philomela became a swallow which has no song, and Procne became a nightingale, renowned for its song).  
> (d) The line in **bold** is almost a direct quotation from _The Last of the Wine_ , Chapter 11.

He had seen out his last patron of the evening. No one had bought his services for the whole night, so what remained till morning was his now. Most of the boys (and the women too, for that matter), would be relaxing in the baths before retiring for a well earned rest; but Phaedo felt too restless for that tonight. Something pricked at him and would not let him rest. His ablutions were hasty and efficient. He donned a tunic of sober colour and conservative style (quite different from his working garb), tossed a warm wool cloak over his shoulders, and delayed only long enough to grab his knife, a flask, and some food from the kitchen, before he strode boldly toward the back door of the establishment. Gurgos frowned as Phaedo passed, but did not impede. He was allowed some latitude. Where could he go, after all, that he would not be recognised and brought back if he tried to run? 

Normally he wandered round the agora; and Phaedo did make his usual circuit. But it did not calm his restlessness. There was a strange stillness to this night’s air. The sky was perfect: clear and lit only by stars; Artemis had turned her face, not showing even the slightest glimmer of her pale shining beauty. It had been just such a dark night that had seen the final breach in the walls at Melos – when treachery had given the Athenians his home. All knew the dark night as one when demons walked; sensible men stayed in their houses on such a night. However, he couldn't see anything like that caring about a slave from a bathhouse; and he did not feel the slightest inkling to return to its dubious safety. Instead Phaedo felt drawn toward the eastern gate. Never in his late night wanderings had he approached the City walls before. 

He stood before the oak gate pondering for long moments. It had long since been bolted and barred for the night. The guards, expecting no one, were crouched over a game of dice, and gave him only perfunctory attention, especially when he did not approach. Phaedo circumvented the City entrance and climbed up over the roofs of warehouses and stables built up against the stone barrier. He checked out several points, peering over the wall, before, finally, by a crumbling cornice, he spotted a suitable stretch. The wall had sufficient holds for him to clamber down, and was in a blind spot not easily overlooked by the guard tower. Once down, Phaedo set a brisk pace on the road; he was the only traveller on it this late. His simple clothes (and lack of horse) should not attract thieves; but there was no reason to linger. At the crossroads he paused, considering which turning to take. One way led north to Thebes, the other to a pass through the hills to the eastern Attic shore and the ferry to Euboea. No crossroads to Delphi this; and no Sphinx to delay his passage (nor father, his own being long since perished). He knew himself not the stuff of heroes – not even tragic ones. 

From the shadow of the wayside shrine rose a small brindled hound. She whined and snuffled at Phaedo’s hand, begging for attention. Automatically his hand scratched behind her ears and stroked down along the neck and back. The little dog rubbed herself against his leg, then ran off a few steps, before returning to sniff at his crotch, and retreating again. He watched, bemused. Clearly she wanted him to follow. Well...it was as good a way as any, though no well laid road, but a narrow goat track leading from the back of the shrine’s altar up the hill behind. 

Phaedo pushed past prickly yew branches and stumbled over loose stones he could not see in the dark. Ahead he could hear the hound howling – a surprisingly loud noise from such a small dog. Competing with it was melodious song of the nightingale. He felt a sudden chill. The bird was remarkably loud for this time of the year: he would not have thought it courting in Autumn. The path ended in a small clearing – a small _occupied_ clearing. 

He barely recognised his sister. On the journey to Athens he had enquired after her from other captives; but when he heard nothing of her fate, had thought her killed at Melos. All too many had died in the final conflict. On a night such as this he might have fancied her one of the shades, returned to give warning; but clearly this was no ghost. The Philomela he saw before him was no slip of an untried girl but a woman grown, her body swollen large with a child he quickly realised was about to be born. 

How had Philomela come here, he wondered? _Why_ here? No woman wanted to bear a child alone in the woods. She groaned loudly as another contraction seized her. Her legs flexed and bent. This was not time for speculation, he realised. Midwifery might not be a man’s job; but he had seen it done in the bathhouse and now was no time to quibble. He sat behind and lifted her shoulders, cradling her head against his chest, stroking her brow and whispering encouragement in her ear. 

“Phaedo!” Her exclamation came as more of a croak than a cry, her voice was so hoarse and dry from hours of labour. 

“Yes”

“How – why –” 

Her question broke with another groan. 

“Hush, we’ll talk later,” he soothed her. “Time enough after the child is born.” 

Her groans turned to screams as the pains gripped her, ever faster. It did not last long, though, before the child was born – a healthy boy – large, red, and – as soon as Phaedo cleared his mouth – screaming loudly at being ejected from the warmth of his mother’s womb. Phaedo took his knife to the cord and used a corner of his tunic to wipe the baby clean, swaddling him in a cloth he presumed his sister had brought for the purpose, before placing the boy on her belly. Once again he supported her shoulders as she strained and panted; the afterbirth was long in coming. How cruel this process, he thought, that made her labour again, when she was so tired. Dawn was breaking, but the nightingale’s serenade was still going strong when finally it was delivered. The grey light allowed him to see what night had hidden, though. She was white – drained of all strength – losing what little remained to her in unceasing bloody flow between her legs. 

“Phaedo.” Her voice was the merest whisper now. 

He turned her in his arms, cradling her and the babe, tears streaming down his face. 

“Hush, Philomela, don’t waste your energy with talk.” 

She shook her head, her hand groping for...no, _not_ his hand – the knife! With one quick twist she took it from the ground beside him, and plunged it into the baby’s chest. That little boy who had so protested birth, gave not a whimper at death. 

“Why!” 

His sweet little sister – a filicide; Phaedo found he was not immune to shock after all. 

“My master raped me. Had I been able to get away, I would have run; but he imprisoned me. I studied Hekate’s art with a wise woman and took poison once; but he made me take the antidote and had me watched after that, so there was never another chance. I will not bear a son for the man who murdered my father.” 

“How ever did you get away?” Phaedo wondered. 

“As soon as I felt my pains start, I set the barn on fire and slipped away in the confusion.” 

He had to bend to make out her words, so little had she left. Gently he kissed her forehead as her last breath left her, then held her, until his shoulders grew stiff. In Melos, she had been gay and innocent. His remembered her laughing and singing; there would be none of that now. The dog whined and pushed her nose into his armpit. He shoved at her; she shoved back. Shocked, he watched as she tore the remnants of Philomela’s shift from her, and licked the blood. As the body came clean, her aspect was young again – the sister he remembered from years before. Once finished, the dog nudged him; and he wrapped mother and baby in his cloak. Hero’s heart she had proved to have – she deserved a hero’s pyre. Would that he could give it to her; but he had no tinder, and his knife, while sharp, would not serve to cut the wood necessary for such a fire. The best he could do was pile fallen branches on top as meagre protection from scavengers. He did not even have a proper offering to burn. In the end Phaedo stood, dog at his side and nightingale on his shoulder, and recited the prayer for the dead he remembered learning as a child when his grandfather had died. Then he drank deeply from his flask, pouring the last in libation on the ground. 

**The next day, feeling his soul sickened and his mind in turmoil, he locked the door as though someone was with him, and getting out through the window, wandered about the City.**


End file.
